by Wendy Holden
Laura was not one to shirk responsibility, however. She took a deep breath and dialled. With any luck – if luck was the word – Caspar would be with his lawyers, or whatever maligned superstars did on such occasions.
He was not, however. He picked up immediately.
‘I never expected you to answer,’ Laura said cheerfully, by way of a preamble.
‘Don’t rub it in!’ he yelped.
‘How do you mean?’ She was mystified.
‘Answering the phone myself. Haddock’s resigned. Says he only works for gentlemen.’ As Caspar’s voice climbed the register, ‘gentlemen’ came out as a squeal.
‘How are you, Caspar?’ The formality of the question was deliberate, inviting him to inject a bit of British stiffness into his upper lip.
‘How do you think I am? My reputation is trashed! I’ve lost the Bond job!’
‘I know. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well. I’ll tell you what you said!’ Caspar’s voice was full of vitriol. ‘You said it would all be okay!’
Laura closed her eyes. ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘My career!’ Caspar was working himself into hysteria. ‘It’s not just Bond, all my other projects have been cancelled! And I had some great roles lined up! Fantastic parts! Pure Oscar-bait.’
He went on to detail roles as a serial killer, a psychopath and a paedophile. Listening, Laura started to wonder if there wasn’t a bright side to this after all.
‘But now I’ve got nothing!’ Caspar wailingly concluded. ‘What am I going to do, Laura?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Look, Caspar. You’ve been knocked down before. But you’ve got up again.’ Even to her own ears she sounded like one of Mimi’s cheesy postcards. ‘What I mean is, you can bounce back. You just have to believe in yourself. Be strong.’ She stopped. She was making even her own toes curl with these platitudes.
Caspar wasn’t listening anyway. He was busy cataloguing his woes. ‘And I’ve been dumped from Belinda’s.’
Laura remembered the proofs she had read. Society was running a piece on this place. But why would Caspar be interested? He lived three thousand miles away. ‘That club in London?’ she asked, to be sure. ‘With the diamond floor and the ice-cube carver? That costs a million pounds to join?’
‘Two million! I was invited to be a Founder Member!’
The inner inner circle, Laura recalled.
‘There are only a hundred of us allowed!’ Caspar wailed, as another tidal wave of loss broke over him. ‘We’re hand-picked and personally interviewed! This guy flew over from London specially to see me! We had a blast!’
Laura hadn’t realised there even was a job flying round the world interviewing candidates to join a two-million-a-year club.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated. ‘But remember, Caspar, I’m always your friend and I’ll do whatever I can to help.’
This was greeted with silence. She pictured him moved, eyes glistening, realising that, despite the smoking ruins of fake Hollywood friendships, there was one person who cared.
‘Caspar?’
The reply sounded absent and some distance away. ‘Just reading a text from my agent. I gotta call him. Be seeing ya.’ The line now went dead.
Laura groaned and lay her head in her arms on her desk. First Harry, now this. What next?
The phone rang again, immediately. ‘Mrs Sweet wants to see you,’ came Honor’s voice. ‘Now.’
Chapter Nine
While Honor’s outfit today was different, it was no less startling than before. She wore a red school blazer edged with thick white piping, a yellow polka-dot skirt, white knee socks and Mary Jane shoes. She looked like an elderly sixth former by way of Disneyworld. ‘Any luck with the ad campaign?’ Laura asked.
Honor shook her head, which was today brought forward in a fringe. Two plaits tied with red-checked ribbon stuck out behind. ‘Not as yet, but I’m down to the last three for a building society brochure.’
‘Wow,’ said Laura, thinking of the colourful leaflets that occupied her during interminable bank queues. Couples bouncing on beds, having secured their first mortgage. Children blowing dandelion clocks, advertising trust funds.
‘I think I’m the will and bequests page,’ Honor said gloomily.
‘Shall I go in?’ Laura asked.
Honor looked her up and down through cartoonish round glasses with thick black frames. ‘Got your bulletproof vest on? No, you haven’t, Laura Lake. That shirt’s so tight I can see your ribs.’ Her red, glossy lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. ‘Go on with you, you and your Gallic chic.’
Laura knocked and pushed open the CEO’s door. It was like opening a brilliantly illuminated fridge. Harsh morning light bounced off all the hard surfaces. The hardest of all was Bev. In her usual tight black skirt and white shirt, propped up by unfeasible heels, she stood by the window, barking into her phone.
‘Well, just sack the staff and get some interns in,’ she was snarling, presumably to some managing editor. ‘You don’t have to pay them anything. Or get people in on trial periods. Trial periods are great. You sack them after a month and get some new ones. No, of course you don’t bloody pay them. That answer your question? Good, now get on with it.’
Laura hoped Bev hadn’t been talking to Harriet. She forced her face into a relaxed smile. ‘You wanted to see me, Mrs Sweet?’
As Bev clacked rapidly over the tiles towards her, Laura was reminded of the tricoteuse again. Although Bev probably had more in common with the guillotine operator. Is that why she was here, to be sacked? Her knees were feeling wobbly in their jeans and so she summoned up the spirit of her father. He had faced far worse than the CEO of the British Magazine Company.
Despite the heels, Bev was still a good foot below Laura. Her angry face with its red slash of lipstick scowled up at her. ‘I want an update,’ she snapped.
‘Update?’ Laura played desperately for time.
A pair of small, plump arms folded aggressively. ‘On the 75 per cent ad issue?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Yes, of course.’
A combative chin tilted towards her. ‘So what are you doing? What’s the plan?’
Laura paused. Much as she hated the thought of Glenravish Castle and Glenravish’s Cro-Magnon laird, Sandy McRavish, in his vest and kilt and carrying his caber (as Laura was now sure he did), it would clearly buy her some time. Harriet’s plan had that virtue at least.
‘I’m going to the Highlands to stay in a castle. Arranged by the main estate agent up there. We think there’s a lot of advertorial potential which we can convert into full-page ads. There are literally thousands of castles for sale,’ Laura said, channelling her inner ad director.
But if she had expected Bev to look pleased, she was disappointed. The Poison Pixie’s response was to clack over to her desk, pick up the sole item that was sitting on it, return and throw it down on the coffee table. It was thick and magazine-shaped and landed with a violent slap. Laura found herself staring down at the latest issue of Simpleton.
‘It’s 80 per cent advertising this time!’ Bev said savagely. ‘And look at that cover. Hudson Grater!’
Regarding the familiar pixie face beneath the pink-sequinned cowboy hat, Laura tried to look as impressed as Bev evidently expected her to be. She knew there was no point asking what exactly Hudson had to do with the simple life. The homes she had on each continent were even vaster and more numerous than those owned by Savannah Bouche. Pictures of one had been all over the papers recently; it was a massive compound by the sea and Hudson had been photographed having an intimate walk on the beach with her latest boyfriend and their joint security detail.
On the other hand, Laura realised now, perhaps she was relevant. The words WELLNESS SPECIAL were printed in neon pink across the bottom of the cover and the straplines were all about Loving Yourself and Self Care. Given that Hudson loved herself to distraction and had never cared about anyone else, she was actually the per
fect cover subject.
Laura now saw, glancing at Bev, that the Poison Pixie’s face was almost soft. Her voice, when she spoke, had a gruff sort of tenderness. ‘I bloody love Hudson Grater. That song of hers, “You Trolled Me On Twitter”?’
Laura made a noncommittal noise.
‘I think of it as my song. We danced the first dance to it at my wedding. Me and my fourth husband.’
‘Right,’ said Laura, surprised at this sudden insight into Bev’s private life. ‘Great choice,’ she said. She wondered what masterpiece of popular songwriting would follow Hudson’s inevitable break-up with her latest paramour, internet trillionaire Jake Suckerman. It was anyone’s guess how he fitted into the simple life template. He had become vastly rich, as Laura understood it, on trolling, terrorism and online bullying.
Perhaps Bev detected the insincerity because the hint of humanity in her features now became a scowl. ‘Tell me more.’
‘More?’ Laura was momentarily flummoxed. She had been distracted by a feature on Finding Your Breathing. How hard was that, really?
‘About your big ad issue?’ Like a fox circling a chicken, Bev now began to circle Laura. The dried-blood mouth twisted and the strange chlorine-blue eyes glinted. The rapier-like spike heels cracked against the floor.
‘Er…’ Laura suddenly couldn’t find her breathing at all. She tried to remember what the article had said.
Bev went at quite a speed and Laura, trying to maintain eye contact, was forced to rotate at the same rate and try not to fall over.
‘Mull is the new Ibiza,’ she gasped out, eventually.
Bev stopped clacking immediately. ‘You what?’
‘Seriously. It’s all trending up there. Having a moment.’ Laura gabbled out all she had been told, right down to the porridge facials and the whisky showers.
‘There’s a massive new music festival too,’ she added, breathlessly. ‘It’s called Land of the Purple Haze. A sort of McGlastonbury.’
Dishearteningly, Bev had gone to stand by the window again. That none of this was hitting the target was miserably obvious. Laura ploughed on, even so. As she completed her description of the Highland Clearances all-suite luxury hotel, Bev turned from the window. She was frowning. The dried-blood lips were pressed together hard.
‘Great idea.’
Relief flooded Laura. ‘I’m so glad you think so.’
‘The peasants aren’t bringing the cash in, so get rid of them and stick some sheep on. Makes sense.’
‘Um.’
‘People always get so uptight about these things but they’re business decisions. Nothing personal.’ Bev clacked across the tiles and sat down behind the transparent plastic desk with an air of abundant satisfaction.
‘You’re talking about the Highland Clearances?’ Laura asked.
‘I sure as hell am.’ The chlorine eyes drilled into Laura’s. ‘I like the sound of this hotel place. I’ll get Oonagh to book me in.’
She meant Honor, Laura realised.
‘Those whisky showers sound interesting. My fourth husband has male-pattern baldness.’ She picked up the phone and Laura realised she was dismissed.
Descending in the lift, Laura tried to see the upside of the situation. First and foremost, her career was getting a stay of execution. Secondly, she could use a distraction now that Harry was away. And when he came back – as surely in the next week or so he would – it would do him good to find her out of town. Make him realise that he could not take her for granted.
Laura’s natural optimism began to assert itself. A leisurely plane trip to Scotland might be fun. In-flight drinks, a seat by the window. She might even feel like a glossy mag editor again.
*
Half an hour later Laura was poring over a map of the UK, studying the strange northern part of it and planning the journey with Demelza.
The PA sat on the sofa opposite Laura’s desk, twiddling with the feather on her plait with one hand and swiping at her tablet with the other. ‘You could get the eight o’clock or the twelve o’clock on Friday,’ she was saying, as Harriet appeared.
The twelve o’clock was a no-brainer. She could have a drink then, and lunch. Everyone always moaned about how bad plane food was, but she’d always found it fun. Laura grinned at Demelza. She was beginning to feel positively cheerful about this.
Harriet remained standing in the doorway. She seemed reluctant to come in for some reason. ‘Are you sure the lunchtime one will leave you enough time? The journey takes a while, you know.’
Laura looked at her. ‘It takes about an hour.’
Harriet looked back. ‘More like eight hours. And only if the traffic’s on your side.’
Laura had the feeling they were talking at cross purposes. ‘You do mean a plane, don’t you? Demelza’s about to book me on the twelve o’clock to… um…’ What was the place called? She consulted her notes. ‘Inverness.’
She expected Harriet to be pleased at such a quick, simple journey. Economy class, too. The last editor, Carinthia Gold, had taken first-class long-haul everywhere, even to short-haul destinations.
‘In which case it’s just as well I’ve come in,’ rejoined the managing editor. ‘New staff directives forbid all plane or train journeys. We’re on an austerity footing, remember.’
‘But that’s just lunches,’ Laura pointed out. Editorial entertaining in restaurants had recently been banned. Staff now wooed important contacts over sandwiches on benches in the square.
‘I’m afraid it’s everything,’ Harriet said, more matter-of-fact than apologetic.
Behind her desk, Laura folded her arms in their tight dark sleeves. ‘So what am I supposed to do? Walk?’
Harriet raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, you could drive yourself there and claim back half the petrol costs, but oh wait, you can’t drive, can you?’
‘You mean I don’t,’ Laura corrected touchily. She should learn, she knew. But she’d never needed to in Paris and didn’t in London either. And until the day before yesterday there had been Harry, even if his ancient and battered Golf was the most repulsive car ever encountered. Now, however, she missed even that, with its footwell full of rubbish, boot full of ancient plastic bags and strange rotting smell everywhere.
‘In which case it’s National Express,’ said Harriet.
Laura had never heard of National Express. ‘Is that like American Express?’ she said hopefully.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Demelza said crossly. ‘It’s the bus. You get it from Victoria Coach Station. You’re not serious?’ She glared accusingly at Harriet. ‘Laura’s the editor of a glossy magazine. The smartest glossy magazine. You can’t put her on a bus all the way to Scotland, next to the chemical loos.’
‘Stop!’ Laura’s hangover was far from cured and while she was grateful for her secretary’s support, it wasn’t without its complications. She felt she could almost smell the facilities Demelza spoke of. Gloomily, she resigned herself to a journey from hell, and all her old objections to the Scottish issue returned.
Chapter Ten
After this, lunch in a restaurant, even one booked by the faddish Lulu, felt like a rare treat. Laura had walked up and down outside it a few times before realising she was where she should be. The outside bore no sign, though it was covered in white glass peppered with glowing rectangles of colour. It was the entrance to a designer hotel called Vaporiser, as it turned out.
It sounded like a vape shop and Laura was clearly not the only one to draw this conclusion. The architecturally daring façade was semi-invisible thanks to a large group of mixed office workers, tramps and hi-vis builders, all exhaling vast plumes of scented smoke. A rather hapless-looking doorman was trying to encourage them to go elsewhere, but since he was dressed in a white suit with a white top hat, the respect normally owing to his profession was lacking. ‘Leave it out, mate,’ one of the tramps was advising. ‘You look like the ghost of bleedin’ Fred Astaire.’
Laura squeezed past this fracas into a foyer lined with clear
glass columns, apparently hollow because inside them swirled different-coloured smoke. They reminded Laura, not pleasantly, of the chemistry lab at school.
‘I’m looking for the Steam Room,’ she told the concierge, who wore a white suit like the doorman, but with a matching huge puffed cap that made him look like a mushroom.
She was half-resigned to being shown a sauna, but the mushroom took her to what was clearly a restaurant. Windows marched along one of the walls and there were booths and tables set with glasses and cutlery. It all looked normal enough and Laura, shown to her seat by an entirely white-clad but otherwise reasonably conventional waitress felt her hopes rise that the food would be too.
Lulu had not yet arrived, which was only to be expected. She had been spectacularly late when living just down the road in Kensington, so Laura’s hopes were not high that she’d breeze in on time from the country.
Laura examined the menu. It looked excellent, if very expensive. There were oysters, scallops, black-crusted cod, even sticky toffee pudding. Not quite jam roly-poly, but an excellent substitute.
‘Laura!’ Something blonde and excitable was clattering over the white glass floor towards her. Lulu wore baby-pink fake fur over a black sequinned bodysuit. The tight legs of the bodysuit were almost hidden by thigh-high spike-heeled boots printed all over with the face of Marilyn Monroe. Lulu was what could be described as a ‘fearless dresser’.
‘Wow,’ said Laura. ‘Is that what people are wearing in Great Hording these days?’
‘Some of them,’ giggled Lulu, enveloping Laura in a powerfully scented hug. ‘Anna Goblemova, she has same boot, hmm?’
That figured, Laura thought. Anna was the wife of Sergei, the local oligarch, who wanted everyone to admire his wife as much as he did. For a second, Laura felt a wave of nostalgia for the millionaires and madness of Britain’s Poshest Village.
‘Let’s eat, hmm?’ Lulu loved food. Her healthy appetite showed in her plump, round features and the curvaceous figure straining the seams of the skintight clothes she always wore. Possibly that figure had got more curvaceous still since moving to the shires. Her bust, certainly, was an impressive sight these days.